(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.


Anonymous submission.

User Rating: 3,8 / 5 ( 411 votes ) 93

Comments (93)

With this poem, it's not true but it's a true feeling. He even makes reference in his 'Aliens' piece that there are people who live in good health, with good family lives, and comfortably all around for the duration of life until dying a peaceful death during sleep. In Bukowski's life, the landfills and graveyards were the only thing that grew with any consistency. It's that sad, uncomfortable reality that most of us on earth never find a 'one' that he processed in his way.
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Bukowski nails the hopelessness of the search for peace and love......it's the futile search.
I like this stark picture of life in a modern city, in free verse, where 'the madhouses fill'
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